Defrocked
by Basser
Summary: ASiB's 'naked' scene from Sherlock's point of view. Character motivation study.


**A/N: **_Been awhile since we've had one of these, hasn't it? Well since I haven't done a scene in so long I decided to go for a bit of a challenge. Write up one of Sherlock's interactions with Irene while somehow keeping my personal headcanon of gay!Sherlock intact? Fuck yeah, let's do this thing._

* * *

Standard over-ornamented interior décor of a lavish Belgravia residence, not exactly much he can gather through observation. Too clichéd, almost _overbearing_ in its aggressive display of wealth. It reminds him somewhat uncomfortably of his childhood - everything so neat and pristine, obsessive cleanliness, items in their proper places. More like a museum than a home. Disgusting.

A woman's voice sounds from the hallway and he quickly leans forward on the sofa, donning his "Stammering Vicar" persona in one quick shift. Kerchief back to the cut on his face, flip expressions from his basic neutral façade to flustered stress. Not an entirely comfortable personality to wear but it's one of the few characters in his arsenal with a timid, non-threatening demeanour. And in dealing with a dominatrix, he'd surmised, playing submissive is the most likely key to lowering guards.

Footsteps down the hardwood, she's asking after his name - had he even come up with one? Must have done, just need to remember... ah! Yes, that's right, it was- _gah!_

_That-_ what!? _What._ Why is she-? _WHAT._

He's startled right out of his act. Instead stares blinking like an idiot at the _extremely naked woman _in the doorframe. That's... well. Hadn't, er... hadn't been expecting... but _why_ is she naked? What possible purpose could that-? And what's... is that... why is th...!?

It occurs to him rather belatedly that he has, to date, had precisely _zero_ real-world encounters with (living) female anatomy._ (And why would he have? He's never found himself interested in them, sexually or otherwise, and his study of biology and/or the physiological sciences generally extends only so far as its use in forensics.)_ And for some incomprehensible reason this dearth of experience is proving to be an _exceptionally_ effective stumbling block to any and all ongoing mental processes.

Against all odds this woman has, for the moment, thoroughly scrambled his brain.

Still standing at the threshold to the room she tilts her head to the side with a slight questioning, vaguely insulted expression; silent message of _what's the problem? _As if _he's _somehow the one being rude - as if meeting a guest _completely starkers_ is nothing more than a slight modification to social custom. It's not. It's _miles and miles _out of line. He may have no more than a tenuous hold of appropriate social protocols at the best of times but he's quite sure of _that _one.

Unfortunately there's not really any eloquent way to ask the very pertinent question of _'why the hell are you naked?'_ without betraying the fact that the majority of thoughts currently running through his mind are largely centred around human genitalia, and lacking anything coherent to say he's reduced to sitting in a sort of stunned silence. At the very least he manages to keep his expression neutral as she saunters over; doesn't react more than a fraction to her simpering taunts and sudden very unwelcome intrusion into his personal space.

_Difficult to remember an alias when you've had a fright..._

No, more when you've had the rules of polite conduct rudely turned on their head without warning, thanks. He's not sure why she thinks _breasts_ should be frightening, of all things. Not that he wouldn't very much like to have hers out of his face. That's not _fear_, though - discomfort if anything, now, simply for the fact that he tends to find _anyone_ (naked or not) coming within such close proximity to his person to be acutely unpleasant.

She leans forward, snatches away his fake clerical collar, quips something about _defrocking_. Probably halfway clever if he were capable of paying more than the barest attention to her words. And, oh, evidently she knows his name...? Could have skipped all the acting, then. Well, no matter. He responds with hers in kind. Two can play at that game.

And there now, see? Not _frightened, _not in the _least._ Just... vaguely startled. Understandably so, too, as it's not often someone casually strolls into a room completely nude. Also still being forced to tolerate a naked person infringing on his personal space. Which, granted, may very well cross the line from _startling_ to _distressing_ here quite soon _(though still that's not fright at all - anxiety, entirely different beast)_ but for the moment he has enough nicotine in his system to smother the impulse to panic. Not a problem.

Anyway, yes, well. So she's naked. And standing _far_ too close to him. Nothing he can't ignore. He's fine.

A strange expression flits across her face as she smiles down at him; _oh, look at those cheekbones..._

Wait, _what? _What has his _face_ got to do with anything? _Slapping_ him...? And, oh, oh... right... some sort of seduction technique. Probably? Well, in retrospect it must be - she's a _dominatrix,_ clearly her preferred form of negotiation will revolve around sex. Should have expected that. It's fine, though, he simply has to figure out how to counter it... surely he's had at least some experience? Think, think... some long-buried interrogation, or...

Blast, nothing. As far as he can recall the last time Sherlock came even remotely close to _seducing_ anyone he'd been nineteen and high as a bloody kite. Quite close to drunk, as well, and moreover dealing with _entirely_ the wrong gender. Not exactly applicable to the situation at hand. Evidently past knowledge won't be helping him here.

On to deduction, then. And while that's never been especially effective when dealing with social constructs over logical ones there's still always a chance. All he needs to know is how she's expecting him to respond... or, wait... _is_ she expecting him to respond? Perhaps her behaviour's somehow meant to facilitate relevant discussion on its own? Can't, though, because what's the ultimate _point _of this? Not... sex, or whatever. He'd just come about photos, he's almost certain... no, this confrontation has nothing to do with anything.

And why the _hell_ has she got his fake collar in her _mouth _now? Is that meant to be intimidating? Or, what... sexy? Because if so it's rather failed - mostly just looks like she's gone round the bend. But then she's still staring at him with that strange half-smile so she must be expecting him to do _something_ or react somehow but he has no idea what she's after and _oh lord this is just bloody confusing._ And uncomfortable. _Extremely so. _If the mad bint would just take a single sodding step _backwards-!_

Mercifully he's saved from further bewildering torment by John showing up. The doctor stares at them a moment, befuddled, then raises his eyebrows with a sarcastic _I've missed something, haven't I? _which breaks their current stalemate.

Adler finally, _finally_ backs off from hovering perilously over Sherlock's lap; he can't stop a very small thought of _oh thank god_ as his personal space becomes his own again. _(One thing he's simply never been able to tolerate: proximity to strangers. No real explanation for the aversion, either, just that he hates it.)_ Free of the oppressive knot of stress her presence had been causing he manages to slip back into his usual role of sardonic poise.

Now then. Presumably he'll be able to think clearly once more. Unbothered by her continued lack of clothes _(just skin and flesh, after all, nothing he hasn't seen - he'd just been startled earlier, reacted oddly)_ he quickly scans her for details.

And... finds nothing.

_Of all the... _why!? She's not in his face anymore - genitals no longer distractingly exposed as she's crossed her legs, breasts now covered by her arms. Surely he should be able to...? Ah, but then, no, on closer inspection it's less a problem of her being _naked_ and more that he's not sure what details comprise actual clues and what might be a ruse. But is that something she's done purposefully, to throw him off? Or is he still muddled from the recent affront on his senses?

Need some sort of baseline measurement... there! John, by the door still. Easy enough. _Two-day shirt, razor, shoes, eyebrows... date night, Stamford, needs to call Harry..._ okay, right, no. He's fine. Deductive prowess thoroughly recovered. So why...?

Back to Adler. Earrings large, expensive... but has she worn them specifically _because_ she knows he'll notice their price? And if so, why? What do they signify? _Red lipstick black hair tight curls _but none of it necessarily _means_ anything; every detail could matter or _none _of them could matter and in the end that cancels out to questions over questions.

Is all of that _her_ doing, though, or is his mind playing tricks? Inventing complication where none exists? Is he _overestimating_ her? But then, if that were the case, why this inability to make heads or tails of any portion of her appearance? Surely _something_ must...

They've moved on to some sort of inane pseudo-philosophical discussion, now. And perhaps he _has_ overestimated her intelligence because her analysis of his disguise was nothing but a complete load of drivel.

_However hard you try it's always a self-portrait?_ What, he's a vicar with a bleeding face? Oh, no, she's got some ridiculous little psychological profile all ready to go. Right, okay. Because_ clearly _he must hold a delusional vision of himself as some sort of god. A god whose thought process completely derails in response to some random de-clothed woman standing a bit too close to his face. Ring the _bloody_ church bells, people, we've a deity here.

Derisive, vaguely contemptuous glare her way - because _honestly, _they've been acquainted for what? Less than ten minutes? And already she thinks herself qualified to _dissect _him? Good bleeding luck. To her credit she's come up with a marginally-decent description of the outward characteristics of his default persona but that's hardly a crowning achievement. He's been using the same act for well over twenty years now, not much of a challenge to piece it together. Now if she got anywhere beyond the superficial, _that_ would be something... but of course she doesn't. Not possible, he's ensconced in far too many layers of false fronts, continual obfuscation of his motives.

And yet she continues to look smug? Ugh, probably thinks his silence means she's _on_ to something. Like hell it does. He is _not _delusional and he's certainly not _damaged_, whatever that's supposed to mean. Nought for two, woman, give it up.

She makes some sort of unsubtle implication of he and John being together. Not unexpected, happens frequently, decidedly uninteresting. John's growing more and more uncomfortable with the woman's state of undress however so Sherlock stands from his seat on the couch to offer his coat, which she accepts without protest. Quips and banter, keeping the doctor the butt of the joke; _don't think John knows where to look._

Adler turns to the unfortunate man and bares herself fully, smirking as she turns back around. _No, I think he knows exactly where... not sure about you._

Well, no, as he's never had any possible reason to care about female anatomy. Best he's got is a collection of half-remembered rants from various heterosexual male acquaintances on the merits of breast size and hip ratio. Which, back when he'd been young and bored enough to bother with such things, hadn't been of much consequence to his personal tastes.

Derailed from that line of discussion, however, because somehow Adler knows about a case of theirs? The hiker, hasn't been in the papers... _I know one of the policemen._ Oh, so she extorts information from her clients. Dangerous, might be alarming if not for the idea being so depressingly predictable. Get them at their weakest, obviously... and honestly what _is_ it about sex that reduces men to moronic shells of their former competence? Some sort of gender-specific deficit in neural wiring, creates automatic weakness in even the most stalwart individuals.

Not universal, though, of course, as _Sherlock's_ certainly never found himself- er... well, actually... no, no! But, sort of. Alright then so he's _mostly _never been... well... but then he'd been _high_ at the time so it doesn't... and it's not like he said anything beyond... and... _gah_, wait,_ why is he thinking about sex!?_

Sudden internal panic in response to a frankly _alarming_ deluge of mental imagery. Accompanying physical reaction!? No! No, nononono _stop it_ that is _not_ appropriate to the situation you bloody-

_Argh!_ The hiker! Right! _How was it done!? _John and the woman busy exchanging barbs now he's not really listening brain's been usurped by unwelcome recollection of past encounters things he'd been quite sure to delete memories from younger years _brainy's the new sexy!? _and _no, _alright_, shut up! _Dead hiker! How!?

_Pos'tionf'th'carrle-_ random slur of noises instead of a sentence. _Oh for fuck's-!_

Shakes his head to clear it, tries again, simple enough explanation _come on get it together you idiot._ Words tumble out racing along far too fast but _sod it _that's coherent enough. At the very least he manages to slow his pace down by the trail end of his overdrawn run-on sentence, regaining some poise, though that's not much of a victory after a display like _that._

Flicks a frustrated glare off into space at his own lack of composure. _Ugh, _enough already. He is not some hormone-addled teenager - he's a_ bloody adult. _This is _not_ an issue. He's not going to let himself get flustered over some childishly lewd remarks and a single naked human smirking at him while she uses his coat as a dressing gown. Who cares, not relevant.

Sex is a thing that happens... that _has_ happened. Multiple times. _(No matter how Mycroft would apparently like to pretend otherwise - has the idiot honestly never bothered to catch up on Sherlock's surveillance-dodging escapades during university? Or does he simply not want to know? Probably the latter. Sherlock absolutely never wants to learn the particulars of his brother's romantic history, after all. Doubtless the sentiment is mutual.)_ Just acknowledge the subject and move on. This is _not_ a problem.

All distracting thoughts forcibly shoved from his mental space; better things to focus on. Adler's here, willing to talk, get the information they'd come for. Simple.

Pacing is admittedly a terrible habit but he hardly recognises he's doing it - too engaged with the business of stringing Adler along the trail of logic he's had nebulously planned since the beginning of this while debacle. Interestingly enough she actually appears_ fascinated _by the case. Unable to piece it together with any degree of finesse, though - not quite on his level it seems. Disappointing... but still there's a spark of gratification regardless. Not often does he find people who want to understand the process beyond its end results, after all.

Despite the brief flash of cleverness she nonetheless steps neatly into his trap with all the grace of a lumbering rhinoceros. And that, frankly, is pathetic. Supposes he can't really fault her, though - he _is_ a genius, can't expect to find intellectual equals but once in a blue moon.

Anyway. Photos are in the room? Excellent.

John's dismissed to the hall to enact his part in the plan. Adler lets him go without a fuss - she'll fall for their trick, plainly. But she's being as she's moderately clever and they're stuck waiting for the moment he decides he might as well see if he can't guide her through to the solution of the hiker's death. Simple case, really. Maybe she'll catch on without undue effort.

Ugh, god but she _insists _on being dense. _Stop boring me and think! _Startling people with nudity and unwelcome contact might constitute 'cleverness' in her world but it's a far cry from the cold logic necessary in _his. _Come now you silly woman, I've spelled it out for you - all down to the car's backfire, not a leap to the rest. Think what one does in response to a loud noise, the _distraction..._

And that, by some stroke of luck, provides a perfect segue to the fire alarm.

Adler's eyes immediately flick to the hearth. Sherlock smirks.

_Far_ too easy.


End file.
